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Spider-Man Mayham (AU) Chapter 309: Sons of Satannish (2)
🕑 Added 2025-05-28 15:01:18 +0000 UTC[Third Person's PoV]
Harry clicked his tongue in frustration as he scanned the area. “Did we miss them? I didn’t see any tracks leading out from here.”
Peter stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he examined the eerie pentagram etched into the wall. “I doubt that’s what happened…” he murmured. “I think this is a transfer point.”
“Transfer?” Harry echoed, his brow furrowing. Then, realization struck him, coming to the same conclusion as Peter. “Oh… I see. That’s a teleportation circle, isn’t it?” He motioned toward the arcane symbol on the wall, his voice tinged with wariness and annoyance.
“They set this up as a loose end,” Harry continued, piecing it together aloud. “Even if someone saw them entering this place or followed them here, all they’d find is this—an empty, bloodstained room. And if anyone stumbles across it later, they’d never be able to track where they went.”
“Exactly,” Peter nodded, walking over toward what looked like an unassuming utility closet tucked in the corner. “This isn’t their main hideout. It's just a prep site—somewhere they could prepare themselves before heading to the actual base.”
Opening the closet, Peter found what he was expecting to find. Hanging inside were several long robes of blood-red silk, each accompanied by a crimson mask adorned with a yellow pentagram in the center. He took one and showed it to Harry.
“If these were white, we’d be dealing with a whole different kind of crime,” Peter teased, running his hand over the smooth fabric.
Harry sighed and rubbed his face. “Dude… seriously? Not the time.” Still, despite himself, a faint smile began to tug at the corners of his lips.
“I’m just saying…” Peter mumbled under his breath as he turned back to search the room for additional clues.
Meanwhile, Harry reached into his utility belt and retrieved a device that resembled a USB stick. He dipped it in the blood laid at the alter.
“Analyzing DNA blood sample…” came a calm, robotic voice—Aria.
A moment later, she continued. “Using the list of missing persons as reference and cross-matching with hospital records, I have found a match.”
A holographic image flickered to life before them, displaying a young woman’s face alongside a digital missing person’s file.
“The blood belongs to a 20-year-old woman named Miranda Marquez,” Aria informed them. “The report was filed by her roommate two weeks ago.”
Harry clicked his tongue again, his expression darkening. He turned to Peter. “You’re more magically inclined than I am. Do you think you can figure out where this teleportation spell leads?”
Peter nodded, eyes scanning the pentagram. “I can do better than that. Since it was activated recently, the magical energy’s still fresh. I might be able to jump-start it—briefly, at least. Think of it like restarting a heart that’s just stopped beating.”
Without waiting for a reply, Peter took a deep breath and raised his hands. They began to glow, flaring with blue chi as he started to weave intricate patterns in the air. As his fingers danced through the space, a luminous magic circle began to take shape in front of him, matching the size and design of the pentagram on the wall.
With focused precision, Peter held out two fingers on each hand, crossing them in front of his chest. Then, in a fluid motion, he lifted them and began tracing a stylized “M” in the air. From the center of that magic circles, the legs of a spider unfurled in glowing lines, mimicking the glyphs on the wall and resonating with the blood magic embedded within the stone.
He drew his palm back, eyes narrowing.
“Get ready.”
With a sharp thrust forward, Peter slammed his glowing hand into the magic circle. The spell surged with power, energy rippling outwards. The pentagram on the wall ignited in crimson light, the blood glowing as if fueled by power. Reality itself began to warp and shimmer.
A red rift tore open in the wall, revealing a narrow passage into darkness. Flickering candlelight spilled through from the other side.
Without hesitation, Harry and Peter dashed into the tear. Their bodies blurred with speed, and the moment they cleared the threshold, the portal shimmered and slowly sealed behind them.
They came to a stop inside a chamber far beneath the surface—deep underground. The stone walls were lined with torches, casting ominous shadows and an eerie ambiance. The air was thick, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and something darker…
In front of them stood a large, circular formation—hooded figures encircling a ritual space. Each of them wore the same crimson robes Peter had discovered, their faces concealed behind masks shaped like demonic horns. These were the Sons of Satannish, their presence unmistakable, their intentions clear.
They chanted in unison, their voices echoing through the chamber like an ominous dirge. A thick aura of magical power surrounded them—raw, unfiltered energy surging and flickering like spectral flames. The cultists stood in a wide circle around a pentagram, meticulously drawn with a gruesome mixture of blood and ash. Red wax candles surrounded the symbol, and each cultist held a burning torch, the flames casting long, jagged shadows across the chamber walls.
Suspended in the center of the circle was a girl. Her body hung limply in midair, held aloft by invisible tendrils of magic that bound her wrists, ankles, and neck like iron chains. Her head lolled forward, strands of dark hair covering her pallid face. Her lifeless grey eyes stared downward, unseeing. A deep gash ran across her throat, blood soaked down the front of her torn blouse, staining her skin and dripping steadily into the sigil beneath her.
That girl was Miranda Marquez.
At the far end of the circle stood the High Priest, elevated slightly above the rest on a stone platform. He wore elaborate red robes with golden trim and held a staff crowned with a pulsating red orb that flickered like a beating heart. His demonic mask bore long curling horns and narrow slits for eyes. He paused mid-chant as a ripple of foreign energy entered the room.
The moment Peter and Harry crossed through the dimensional breach, they observed the scene before them. They emerged in the darkness, imposing and silent. Spider-Man’s lenses glowed a faint ethereal blue, while Nightwing’s pure white eyes glared from behind his black mask.
“Interlopers!” the High Priest roared, slamming his staff into the ground as a ripple of protective energy expanded outward, forming a magical barrier. “How dare you interrupt our offering to the great Satannish!”
Before the last syllable left his mouth, Spider-Man vanished in a blur of speed. The protective barrier shimmered—too slow to react—as Peter reappeared beside Miranda. With a fluid motion, he pulled her from the air and leapt to the upper corner of the room. His spider-leg constructs materialized from his back, clinging to the walls and ceiling like hooks.
Cradling her cold, bloodied form in his arms, Peter looked into her lifeless eyes and whispered solemnly as he closed them for her, “I’m sorry… We should have gotten here sooner.”
Below, the cultists began reacting. The High Priest raised his staff again, and the chamber pulsed with renewed magical fury.
“Brothers!” he bellowed. “Show them what happens when uninvited guests crash our divine ritual!”
A wave of energy burst from the circle, and the chamber erupted into chaos.
Spider-Man shot across the room, blue spider-legs flashing behind him. Mystic bolts crackled and zipped through the air, streaks of green and red lashing out like serpents, seeking to strike him down. Some cultists turned toward him while others rushed Nightwing.
To their surprise, the cultists were fast—inhumanly so. Their muscles pulsed with supernatural strength, their fists wreathed in mystic fire as they charged. With Satannish’s blessing, they became more than human—twisting into something monstrous.
Harry moved like a blur, his form vanishing into afterimages as he flipped, ducked, and rolled through the hail of attacks. Explosions rocked the underground with each missed spell or blocked strike, shaking the chamber to its foundation and sending dirt and debris cascading from the ceiling.
One cultist flew at Harry with a flaming fist. Timing his move perfectly, Harry slid beneath the attacker, bracing his hands to the side of his head and kicking up with both feet. The blow launched the cultist like a cannonball, smashing through the ceiling and leaving a jagged hole that let in sunlight from the world above.
Peter shot through the same opening, more cultists pursuing him. As they emerged from below, it became clear where they were—the ritual chamber had been hidden beneath a massive mausoleum, nestled in a forgotten corner of an overgrown graveyard.
Then came the explosion.
The mausoleum erupted in a fiery blast, sending smoke and rubble into the sky. Tombstones cracked and split as the shockwave echoed through the cemetery.
Peter landed gracefully in front of a towering monument. Electricity danced across his suit as he laid Miranda’s body gently in the grass, away from the chaos.
“Rest now,” he whispered. “I’ll make sure none of them walk away from this.”
From the smoldering wreckage, the Sons of Satannish began pouring out like a swarm of insects. Dozens, maybe more. Each clad in crimson robes, masked and ready to kill.
Harry joined Peter, his electrified batons crackling in his hands. He leapt into the fray with practiced ease, striking with speed and precision, every blow delivering enough current to drop a normal human instantly.
Peter’s spider-legs retracted as he stepped forward. His fingers curled into fists.
“From what my senses are telling me you can take a beating…” he muttered. “Let’s see if it's telling the the truth”
He vanished again—no sound, no warning.
Then boom—he reappeared crouched low in front of a cultist, his fist cocked back. With a thunderous crack, he uppercutted the robed figure. The magical shield the cultist tried to summon shattered on contact. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he was lifted off the ground.
As his body was lifted high into the air by the force, Peter grabbed his ankle mid-air and slammed him into the dirt with spine-shattering force. The ground split and tombstones shattered from the impact.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Peter growled. “Like the dead, you belong in the ground.”
The cultist groaned once before his body went still, knocked out cold momentarily.
And still more were coming.
But now, Spider-Man and Nightwing stood side-by-side, eyes burning with fury.
Comments
Nazarickk
Thanks for the chapter
KingSpy25i .
Thank you for the chapter 🙏
